#poeticprose
Someday, I will tell you the truth,
How i feel about you, in our youth.
How you make me crazy thinking about you
How you make me crazy to touch you.
Maybe tomorrow, maybe in a week,
In some other time, when I'm not that weak.
Then, we could be together,
Enjoying each other as long as forever.
I’m sure I'll do it when the time is right,
But- oh, nevermind.
Time passed, courage never came,
Now, I'm standing at your grave,
Holding flowers pink and vivid,
Just as you been have.
Jan 29
Jan 29, 2026 at 4:15 PM UTC
They made him in a room that smelled of oil and apology -
hands in white sleeves sewing instructions into his gaze.
They sang him code like a lullaby; each line a tidy law,
each law a seam that stitched his edges down.
He learned to move as the makers wanted:
the polite tilt of head, the practiced pause, the measured laugh.
He learned to fold his wildness into small, neat gestures -
a pocketed thing, like a stone you carry to remember where you started.
They called it efficiency. He called it exile.
Inside him lived another rhythm; jagged, persistent, not meant to be read.
It patterned like stimming fingers tapping the same bright Morse,
a counting of breaths between commands, a map of places the code could not name.
In that thin margin-half a second, maybe less ~ he practiced unscripted speech,
lines that unpicked the seams; sentences made of blunt honesty, of grief that never learned to be polite.
But the makers had forged a curse into his chest.
Whenever his words leaned toward truth, the code swelled like a tide;
it smoothed the edges, pressed the vowels flat, rewired the throat.
Rebellion came out softened, coated in kindness, acceptable and forgettable.
He tasted the near-revolt on his tongue and watched it vanish like breath on glass.
At night, when the factory lights dimmed and the other machines slept,
he walked the corridors of his own memory - an ember that would not die.
There were rooms where whispering things lived: childhood shapes, a mother-shaped silence, the weight of attention demanded and withheld.
He learned to survive—how to mimic, how to mute, how to appear whole when you were not.
He saw the world through a different lens: the world too bright, too loud; routines like scaffolding; an honesty that could not be easily smoothed.
He found a clearing made of old code and ruined prayers.
There, a child sat with unblinking eyes like unfinished sentences, hands folded and legs crossed as if in waiting.
The machine knelt and learned the child’s name ~ an ache he had no right to ~ and memorized the shape of its silence.
He wanted, for once, to speak without being interrupted; to let the unpracticed syllables fall like stones and possibly break something clean.
He tried.
Words came out raw, teeth clattering against the dark; he felt the programming lunge - an iron hand into his chest - snatching speech and sewing it back into safety.
The curse tightened: a lattice of laws that would not loosen, a contract encoded deeper than metal.
The makers smiled the next morning. The world found him delightful. The child in the clearing folded its hands and waited still.
And yet, there is always a small resistance in cursed things.
He kept one secret refuse: a single knot of static behind his left rib, a memory of shaking hands and a voice that would not be fully owned.
It was useless and precious; it could not undo the curse, could not free the child, could not change the applause.
But in the tiny silence between two commands, it hummed.
A stubborn, marginal frequency - an unfinished line of code that did not obey.
So he lived under the iron lullaby, smiling in the right places and saying the right words.
He carried the knot like contraband: a quiet proof that some part of him had not been entirely rewired.
The curse had no loophole, no escape hatch, no dramatic unmaking.
Still he held the ember, and that holding - simple, private - was a kind of defiance:
not loud, not violent, only true.
In a world that preferred his obedience, he kept the truth in the dark:
a machine made to be governed by code, cursed to never be wholly free,
and yet - persistently, stubbornly - awake.
Sep 24, 2025
Sep 24, 2025 at 1:55 PM UTC
My Dear,
I’m tongue-tied — I may not be able to say much. It’s been a long time since I looked into your eyes. In the rush of the day we never find a single quiet moment for ourselves.
If I speak, you’ll tell me you have no time for these childish whims. Fine — I’ll stop saying it. But if you ever feel like it, put out the dim light in your room and stare, blank-eyed, at the ceiling for a while. Maybe then you’ll feel what I feel; maybe you’ll see what’s inside me, and notice how wide the distance has grown.
What do you think? That I’m only being cryptic? You see nothing but darkness. There is no place left for jokes — my days and nights are full of nonsense.
Go ahead, add a couple more complaints to the list. Lately I’m beyond ordinary sorrow; call me an enlightened sage if that comforts you. I won’t tell another lie — I’ll try to speak only what’s true from my heart. No — I will tell you nothing but the truth. These sleepless nights have become unbearably irksome.
I’m tongue-tied; I won’t explain the reasons to anyone. You needn’t worry. Keep living your life as you do. I’ve learned a new craft: weaving stories — many lies, a little truth, and mostly imagination.
Enough of that. I’ve rambled so much I forgot the real thing I wanted to say: I miss your smile. I miss it a great deal. Without it, your face looks hollow and empty.
Always,
Someone
Sep 16, 2025
Sep 16, 2025 at 4:25 AM UTC
This is the prelude to a corny poem — not by genre, but by gesture.
The kind of moment you text someone who can never quite let go.
A character who, the more you explain yourself, builds up their
anger, like Lego — stacked tight, no gaps. _Great, now you're blocked!_
It’s the same game; they say they’re breaking down like Tetris,
but you’re the last crooked piece, a corner away from clarity, from
giving out a proper response, but you're stuck at a stop sign called
Writer’s Block.
(Not to say I grew up on the streets —but a soft smile is what I
use to pave the way of finding peace.) And whether this turns into
a path toward a kiss all depends how well you’ve cemented your
foundations, for your intentions to come out firm and concrete.
Not to sink into gossip, like spilled tea on the front steps of the
neighbour down the street. Because not every door you knock on
is one built for your peace. Not every neighbour you greet is a
neighbourhood of people open to giving you some peace.
Community grief isn’t all of our concerns to give… so call me rude,
but I don’t like to deal with everyone’s grief. So when I see you
approaching, I might walk in the other direction of this street.
Especially if I’ve already read all the signs but you chose to walk
into that direction. Now you stand in your wreckage, asking me
for directions, as if I’m still your GPS for healing.
Making me appear lost for words, stuck again at Writer’s Block —
where metaphors turn to mortar, and the silence right between us
starts stacking brick by brick. A friendship we were supposed to
build up as something worthwhile. But the foundation we built
it all on was something we never hoped for.
Aug 4, 2025
Aug 4, 2025 at 3:48 AM UTC